


The Blasphemer and his Beloved: a Sam and Dean origin story

by oschun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, soul mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 12:50:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16832956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oschun/pseuds/oschun
Summary: Even as souls in Heaven before they were born Sam and Dean were troublemakers.





	The Blasphemer and his Beloved: a Sam and Dean origin story

**Author's Note:**

> Some of the mythology in this is loosely based on a short story by Isaac Bashevis Singer called 'Jachid and Jechidah' about two rebellious souls who fall in love in Heaven, get banished to Earth, and are then destined to rediscover each other on the other side.

God did not preside over the Superior Court of Heaven. He was too busy with other things. What exactly, nobody in Heaven was quite sure. Probably something artistic, something whimsical.

Music, sunlight, the perfume of Paradise, the creation of new worlds – these were things that interested God, that really _got him going_ , as he used to say. Meting out justice and punishing transgressions just wasn’t his thing.

There were some who silently criticized God for this impractical approach to managing his Creation. (Always silently of course for God was omnipotent as well as being artistic.) But not Metatron. Metatron was not a dissenter. Metatron was a party man. And while there were moments when he might have thought about what Heaven would be like if a different celestial being was in charge (Metatron himself, for example), he never actually entertained fanciful ideas of a regime change.

This was mostly because Metatron loved God. And God really was loveable, there was no denying that. But also because rebellious Angels put themselves in a position that could get them booted into the Abyss (an abysmally awful place by all accounts) with Lucifer and his rabble rousers.

So, being sensitive and artistic, God did not attend the legal tribunals held in the Superior Court of Heaven, and therefore, the role of Judge and Jury fell to Metatron, the Lord of the Face, as he was known in his official capacity.

In truth, it was a responsibility that he secretly relished, despite his grumbling about how much more stress it put on him, what with his duties as Scribe and Chief Counsel to God.

It was a difficult job, but somebody had to do it, he would say when anybody bothered to listen.

The case now before him promised a great deal of personal satisfaction. Metatron hated arrogance and this Soul was stinking with it. Punishing him was going to be a pleasure. The charge was blasphemy. Souls, the accused had claimed, were not created but had evolved out of nothing: they had neither mission nor purpose. There was no God.

The sacrilege of making such a claim fearlessly in public could not be tolerated.

The accused had been given opportunity and vigorous encouragement to rescind his profanity but had held out against the Inquisition Angels. He now stood in the Superior Celestial Court, hurt, weakened and damaged, and yet, still filled with stubborn and sullen defiance.

Being a cowardly pragmatist, Metatron really loathed the ones who occasionally managed to hold out against the persuasive skills of the Inquisitors. It was so much easier all round if they begged for clemency and he could quickly pass judgement in a manner that was befitting of his position and that allowed him to generously bestow his benevolent mercy. 

Rogue Souls. Rogue Angels. Rogue humans on Sheol. Really, the fault for all of it lay at God’s sanctified feet, Metatron thought to himself privately. God loved the plucky, free-thinking ones. It was a fault in God’s nature. Just look at Lucifer. That entire clusterfuck had been inevitable from the moment God created the Angel of Light.

Metatron watched the accused briefly lean his weight against the court railing. He was obviously exhausted, and Metatron’s heart leaped in spiteful anticipation at the sight of his suffering. Maybe there was still time for confession and submission. There was something very thrilling about the possibility of an eleventh-hour surrender.

Besides his blasphemy, Metatron had another, private reason for disliking this particular Soul. The Soul had a lover and the two of them had been bound together since their creation centuries ago. Soul Mates. A ridiculous concept. Metatron hated romanticism. In his humble opinion, romantic love was the little sibling of defiance, and ultimately the parent to blasphemy.

There might be some functional purpose to the illusion of romantic love once the Souls were sent to Sheol, the place they called Earth, because the idea of love was a necessary lie to get them to procreate. But in Heaven, God created all that existed by hand. There was no need for messy biology and even messier emotion. It only ever caused trouble in Heaven. It was a simple truth that loving another distracted the Souls from loving God. 

Metatron knew that some of the Angels in Heaven admired the love that grew between pairs of Souls, and even envied the act of physical bonding between them that sealed their emotional attachment. Copulation. Another ridiculous concept. Most of the higher order Angels avoided such activity, but the Cherubim, being of the lower orders, were always at it.

This envy of the Souls was especially true of the Angels who had been to Sheol. Many of them returned to Heaven different. Sheol-madness Metatron called it. It was as if their observation of humanity created a more intense sense of the difference between the soul of a Human and the grace of an Angel, and that the Angels felt this difference as a lack in themselves.

The love between this accused and his soul mate was particularly powerful. From the start, they had been bound so tightly together that it was rumored they had been created from the same essence and then split into two individuals.

A ridiculous rumor with no foundation in the actual reality of Creation. 

Metatron watched the accused gather his strength and stand tall before the Seat of Judgement, a stubborn tilt to his jaw. Submission was unlikely, but Metatron still intoned the final chance for penance, as was the custom, before his ruling. “Do you repent, child of God, of your heresy? Will you turn your face from darkness back towards the light? Will you submit to the law of Heaven?” 

“Who is God?” the Soul asked so quietly that Metatron had to strain forward to hear his words.

“God is the Father,” he said automatically.

“So where is he? Why isn’t he here with us?”

“It’s not your place to ask such questions. Your duty is to accept and obey.”

This was another problem with God: his constant absence and refusal to show himself (unless in disguise) to his children. Metatron vocally encouraged a more hands-on approach, but it fell on deaf ears. God saw himself as a creator, not an overseer. He wanted his Creation to function independently of his direct influence. In Metatron’s opinion, this was a very dangerous policy.

The accused frowned and sighed deeply. He was a beautiful individual and his pensive, wounded expression only accentuated his beauty. It made Metatron dislike him more. Why did the martyrs and rebels always have to be so damn pretty.

“Why is it my duty?”

“Because God made it so.”

“But I’ve never seen God so how can I accept that my duty is to obey a Father who has never made himself known to me?”

Metaphysics. It was all so tedious. Metatron replied shortly, “It is not your place to question, only to accept.”

“But I have questions!” the accused cried out. “I can’t _not_ question. If God doesn’t exist, then you and the other Angels are keeping us trapped in Heaven in a terrible lie.”

A sudden loud commotion started up behind the heavy, ornately-carved doors of the court. Sounds of muffled shouting, a physical altercation, a grunt of pain, a dragging sound, then quiet once more. 

One of the Guardian Angels in front of the judge’s bench quietly slipped through a side door.

“Restrain the accused,” Metatron instructed as a precautionary measure.

Another Guardian Angel handcuffed the Soul to the railing. He didn’t resist but looked at the doors of the court like he could see through them. The expression on his face arrested Metatron’s attention. A look of such deep longing and deeper, sad resignation. 

“Do you know what it’s like to love, Metatron?” the accused asked, turning to him. “You who are Lord of the Face, God’s representative, the God who calls himself Love.”

It was beneath Metatron to answer.

“I can see you don’t,” the accused said. “As with all the Angels you’re empty on the inside.”

Metatron quickly shot back, “We love God.”

The accused smiled bitterly. “That’s not love. It’s blind duty.”

For the first time in his ancient existence Metatron sensed there might be something he was missing. This broken, pitiful Soul in its short time might have grasped something that he did not understand. Was his love for God simply blind obedience to a flawed (albeit omnipotent) Celestial Being?

The Guardian Angel returned and whispered in Metatron’s ear that the accused’s soul mate had been apprehended as he attempted to storm the court. He was now secure in Heaven’s prison.

Metatron turned back to the accused. “Your beloved is in custody and will be interrogated by the Inquisitors.” A thought suddenly struck him. He lowered his voice and said slyly, “But you can prevent his suffering, Blasphemer. I’ll dismiss the charges. Both of you can go free. All will be forgiven. He’s an innocent and has not partaken in your blasphemy. It is his love and duty to you that has put him in this position. His fate, as well as your own, lies in your hands.”

The accused looked longingly towards the great doors of the Court of Heaven.

“All you need to do is repent and bow before the authority of the Court. Repentance will be rewarded with mercy. Say you love God and have faith.”

“But I don’t have faith.”

Metatron only just stopped himself from shrugging. As if it mattered whether anybody truly believed or not. He was tiring of this. Court was not a place for metaphysical speculation. 

The accused bowed his head. “I can’t.” After a few moments he lifted his face to Metatron. “It’s all a lie.”

Metatron shrugged as he struck his gavel. 

Later, he found himself uncharacteristically distracted as he played chess with God on the Holy Mount, God’s sanctum in Heaven.

“Interesting, isn’t he?”

Metatron raised his eyebrows and pretended ignorance.

God smiled and made a sneaky assault on Metatron’s king. “The Soul that you passed judgement on earlier. He’s an interesting individual. He’ll make an interesting human being.”

Metatron snorted. “Trouble-makers in Heaven continue the same behavior on your little playground down there. There _is_ a more permanent solution.”

God raised his eyebrows. “Death?”

Metatron shrugged. “It would weed out the…” he hesitated over the wording “…the flawed ones. Angels and Souls.”

God gave him a hard look. Criticizing his Creation never went down well.

“I just mean that it’s not a real punishment because the Souls don’t remember their lives in Heaven once they’re born into the world. Their fate is no different to the lottery of Souls who are sent to Sheol anyway. Exile only works as a punishment for Angels. At least they remember what it was to live in Paradise.” 

God looked to the East where the Infernal Realm glowed red. “Do you think my son suffers in exile?”

Metatron did not snort aloud because he didn’t want to hurt God’s feelings. He highly doubted that Lucifer missed his father. According to reports, it was all torture parties and orgiastic suffering in Pandemonium - that great city of Hell created in Lucifer’s dark image after the fall. 

God turned his gaze to Heaven’s prison where the two condemned Souls languished. “Why do they all want to look behind the curtain? Isn’t it enough that I brought them into existence. “

“Because you made them curious.”

While God looked pensive, Metatron made a counter-move on the board that blocked the assault on his king.

“Curiosity is what makes them special. It gives them god-like creativity. Look at all they’ve done. All they’ve made.”

Metatron was a glass-half-empty kinda being. All he could see was small minded viciousness and destructive arrogance on Sheol. They created in their own image and thought that it was good.

“Lucifer was curious,” he jibed cruelly.

“Lucifer was ambitious,” God stated. “It’s not the same thing. Ambition exists in all your kind. Curiosity only exists in theirs. I thought I’d create them differently. Start over.”

This was God’s problem, Metatron thought silently. Humans were obviously inferior to Angels and yet God insisted on loving them equally, if not more. God was a Democrat. An appalling quality in a Celestial Being. It’s what caused him to suffer so much. It’s what allowed free will. It would ultimately be God’s undoing.

Snippets of conversation between an Angel and one of the accused fluttered on the wind like the severed wings of butterflies from the prison into the ear of Metatron. Being near God always increased his powers of perception, for God was all-seeing and all-hearing.

“Who is it that guards the prisoners?” he demanded.

An affectionate smile crossed God’s face. “The Angel Castiel.” 

Metatron cocked his head and tried to listen, but suddenly all was silent. God gave him a small smile.

Metatron asked belligerently, “Do you think it’s wise to allow contact between an Angel like Castiel and the prisoners?”

God smiled again. “Castiel is interesting.”

Metatron was really starting to hate that word.

“He’s hardly a free thinker, Metatron. He’s a faithful soldier. What harm can a little conversation do?”

Metatron snorted in irritation.

“They’re only words, after all,” God said, then laughed quietly.

Metatron knew he didn’t need to remind God that in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, and that chance encounters and conversations had ripple effects with far-reaching consequences. Words were dangerous.

God checked Metatron’s king with one of his pawns and smiled. “Isn’t it interesting how a small, inconsequential piece like this can still have such power on the board?”

To Metatron, that didn’t sound in the least bit interesting, only dangerous.

~+~ ~+~

In Heaven’s prison, the accused who had been condemned for blasphemy awaited his destruction. He did not believe in the existence of Sheol and knew there was nothing beyond this prison but obliteration and nothingness.

The Angels always preached that after a time of trial known as the Earthly Life the condemned soul would be freed from its prison of flesh and bone and breath to be resurrected and returned to Paradise.

The accused did not believe this superstition for Purah, the Angel of Forgetfulness, he who hides the Light and conceals God’s Face, holds dominion everywhere beyond the Godhead, and so all Souls forget their origin.

“Repentance helps even now. It is not too late to prepare your confession.”

The Blasphemer looked up at the Angel on the other side of the bars of his prison cell. The Angel’s eyes were a blinding blue. His wings arched powerfully behind him. A Soldier Angel. The first he’d ever seen. The Blasphemer was momentarily wordless before his power and beauty.

Eventually he found his voice and answered, “I will not confess nor repent. Leave me alone in my final hours before I am destroyed.”

The Angel looked at him intently. “You will not be destroyed. This is not the way of Judgement in Heaven. You will be born anew on Sheol. Be comforted. The Earthly Life is not as painful as many believe it to be. There is happiness, strength and nobility among them.”

The Blasphemer turned away from him. “I’m tired of your lies.”

“You do not know me. I am Castiel and I am telling the truth. I have seen them, watched over them. You will be exiled no longer than a hundred years. They do not exist as we do. Their bodies are not like ours. It is the nature of their flesh to decay. It is a transitory experience. And when you return, it will feel like nothing more than a forgotten dream. You dream, don’t you?”

“I do,” the Blasphemer replied, surprised by the question. He sat down on the floor of his cell and the Angel did the same on the other side of the bars, tucking his wings back into himself, the brightness of his eyes dimming a little.

“What is it like to dream?”

“What is it like on Earth? Presuming I believe you.”

“I asked you first.”

The Blasphemer laughed. This wasn’t like any other Angel he’d ever met. He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard to describe. There are no rules in dreams.”

“Your kind are inherently interested in the idea of breaking rules. On Earth there is a stage in their individual evolution known as adolescence. For many, it is a time of extreme rebellion. It causes anger and unhappiness amongst their older guardians. And yet, the older ones did it too. Their behavior is perplexing.”

The Blasphemer looked closely at the Angel. “You’re not lying.”

Castiel met his gaze and frowned. “I said this to you before.”

“So it’s true?” the Blasphemer exclaimed, his eyes darting over Castiel’s face.

“As I said—”

“Is God real?”

Castiel looked away, then back. “Of course God is real. It’s blasphemy to say otherwise.”

The Blasphemer looked at him suspiciously, “Have you seen him?”

“No, but I have faith.”

The Blasphemer sighed deeply.

“Do you believe in nothing that you cannot see?”

“It’s called rationalism.”

Castiel shook his head. “It’s called a lack of faith. You question too much.”

“You sound like—” The Blasphemer turned his head away and didn’t speak.

He was tearful, Castiel realized. His own soul rose in compassion. The suffering of others increasingly caused this response in him. It was unwelcome but undeniable. He had spent too long watching. Too long staring into the deep well of human emotion. He knew that many in the garrison believed there was something broken in him. If he’d been a Soul and not an Angel, they would have already banished him to forgetfulness on Sheol.

As it was, he’d been relegated to prison guard duty. It was a humiliation for a soldier.

“What is it to love?” he asked quietly.

The Blasphemer looked at him mockingly. “You don’t know?”

“Angels don’t feel in the way that your kind do. Tell me what it’s like to feel that kind of love.”

The Blasphemer frowned. “Why do you want you know?”

“I’m curious.”

The Blasphemer laughed. “That’s a first. An Angel that asks questions, that wants to understand rather than instruct.”

Castiel didn’t reply and eventually the Blasphemer sighed and said, “It’s difficult to explain.”

“I’d heard that you were articulate, had much to say. It seems otherwise.”

Getting to his feet, the Blasphemer paced his prison cell. After a few moments he returned and stood looking down at Castiel, who lifted his face to him and waited patiently.

“It’s overwhelming. It’s contradictory. It feels like a fire that will burn you to nothingness, annihilate everything. It fills you, completes you, makes you whole. It’s quiet contentment when they’re near and a desperate, jealous longing when they’re absent. It’s the desire to bury yourself so deep inside another that they become an inseparable part of you. You want them to be free but at the same time you want to own every aspect of who they are. It’s difficult to explain. That’s what it is.”

Castiel’s lips quirked. “It doesn’t sound very rational.”

The Blasphemer laughed and shook his head ruefully. “No, it isn’t rational at all.”

“Your beloved is perfect in your eyes?”

The Blasphemer laughed again. “Not at all. He’s irritatingly imperfect. Sometimes I don’t even like him.”

“He’s very aggressive.”

“Yes, he is. He doesn’t think about consequences, simply acts on instinct.”

“He doesn’t question in the way that you do.”

“No, he doesn’t. That’s because—” The Blasphemer frowned and looked closely at Castiel. “You know him?”

Castiel nodded and got to his feet in one lithe motion. His wings swept up behind him. He shook them out, then folded them back into himself. “He is in the cell next door. I have spent some time talking with him. At first he tried to attack me and make an escape—a futile gesture for a frail Soul—but I did not hold this against him. He’s…” Castiel’s lips quirked. “He’s amusing.”

The Blasphemer smiled. “He likes to think he’s amusing.”

“He is scheduled to fall before you. The womb that he will occupy is prepared for his entry into the Earthly Life. Yours is not. You will follow later.”

“You mean his grave is prepared,” the Blasphemer said cynically.

“I do not lie. I am incapable of deceit. The womb is not a grave of death. It is a portal into the Earthly Realm. Your soul will be knitted into the fabric of a physical form, a form like ours, but unlike ours in that it obeys the laws of Biology. It is a remarkable process. For nine months you will be created anew, forgetting all that you have known here in Paradise. There is nothing to fear. Birth can be difficult and dangerous, and the Earthly Life can be full of trials, but you will experience happiness and love, as well as danger and sorrow. And after the death of your body, you will be resurrected and returned to Heaven in your original form. When you are returned, you will not remember your existence here before. God in his mercy protects the Souls from knowledge that can be too overwhelming for them to remember. Please allow me to reassure you in this time before you fall. I wish to be of comfort to you. You can trust me.”

The Blasphemer came up to the bars of the cell. “How will I find him?”

Castiel frowned in incomprehension.

“How will I find my soul mate on Sheol after I have been born?”

Castiel smiled. “The two of you are more alike than it would seem. That was his question too.”

“If you have any compassion for me and wish to be of comfort, please, Castiel, tell me the secret to finding him. I thought I was going to my death. I cannot continue to exist and be parted from him. That would be too much to bear.”

“There is no secret. It is not possible. Be comforted by the knowledge that you will forget him.”

“Forget him!” The soul cried out. “How can I forget a part of my own self? Will you condemn me to wander the Earth feeling that part of my soul is missing?”

The Blasphemer suddenly reached between the bars and gripped Castiel by the throat. “Tell me now, Angel, how I will find him. I cannot endure a hundred years apart from him.”

Castiel removed the Soul’s hand from his throat gently for he did not wish to harm him, despite his aggression.

“It would seem that you and your Beloved truly do have much in common. I cannot tell you what I do not know. Trust in God’s plan for you. Anger and violence are not conducive to happiness. I fear that both of you will have to be taught this during your Earthly Life.” 

The Soul turned away from the bars and crouched in the corner of his cell in a posture of pained suffering.

“I can give you something else, though,” Castiel said quietly. The Soul looked up at him. “I can give you time with him before he falls. I will bring him to your cell.”

The Soul leaped up and gripped the bars. “Thank you, Castiel! Your compassion has restored my faith in your kind. I will never forget your kindness to me.”

Castiel highly doubted that but he said nothing.

The Beloved was crouched in the corner of his own cell in a similar posture of suffering.

“Come with me,” Castiel said to him gently. “I will take you to your soul mate. Make no sound, as what I am doing is forbidden. And know this, if you attempt to escape, I will cause you a great deal of pain.”

The Beloved looked at him suspiciously. “Look, you’re alright, for an angel, but there is no way I am going anywhere without a fight. I don’t know if any of this Sheol myth is real or not, and, actually, I don’t care. All I know is that I don’t trust whatever lies beyond those prison doors.”

He really was very feisty for a Soul, Castiel thought with something akin to humor. Most of the Souls in Heaven that he had come across spent their existence listening to the music of the spheres, smelling the perfumes of Paradise and bathing in the wells of Balsam oil. They were like the children of Earth, something innocent and unformed about them. The older ones who missed the regular lottery of souls sent to Sheol, were often serious and studious, spending their time studying the Word and discussing Philosophy.

Occasionally, some of the Souls, those were destined to become warriors on Earth, were prone to aggression but this was quickly quashed by the Guardian Angels and Metatron’s Court.

Those that returned to Heaven, of course, were locked in their own private versions of Paradise and did not come into contact with the pure Souls.

Castiel placed his hand on the wall between the two cells so the Beloved could see through it to his soul mate on the other side.

The Beloved got up and put his hands against the wall, leaning close, in an attitude of such intense longing that Castiel wondered at.

The Soul looked at Castiel. “It’s not a trick? You’ll take me to him?”

Castiel sighed. It was becoming very tiring for him to keep repeating himself.

The Beloved came quietly in the end and Castiel locked the pair of them together, leaving them to spend their final moments with each other, knowing he would probably be punished for his transgression but not really caring.

The Blasphemer and the Beloved stared at each across the small confines of the cell.

“I’m sorry.”

The Beloved sighed and sat down on the narrow bed pushed against one wall of the cell. “What for?” he asked tiredly.

“You think I’ve betrayed you. Or betrayed our love, which is the same thing, after all.”

“That’s not what I think.”

The Blasphemer went and sat down next to the one he loved, took his hand carefully and held it in his own. “I couldn’t lie. But that was my choice. I didn’t want this for you. It was reckless to attack the court in that way.”

“You knew I’d come. It wasn’t a choice for me,” the Beloved replied, his head bowed, looking at their hands clasped together.

“Yes, I knew you would come. But I still couldn’t lie. Not for me, not even for us. I couldn’t lie to save you. It _is_ a betrayal.”

“No, it isn’t,” the Beloved said and raised their clasped hands, so he could press his lips against the knuckles of the one he loved. “It’s who you are. True to what you believe, ideological and idealistic, and always so very irritatingly stubborn.”

The Blasphemer pulled his Beloved to face him. “I will find you. This my doing and I will not allow you to live alone in the abode of the dead. I will scour the Earth to find you.”

The Beloved smiled. “So you’re a believer now? Sheol is not a lie created by the Angels to keep the Souls in a state of compliance? God is real?”

“God is not real. Even the Angel Castiel has doubts. He pretends otherwise but his faith is built on a very shaky foundation. I trust him, and he says Sheol is real. He’s seen it. You’re to fall first. I will come after and I’ll find you.” 

The Beloved stroked the face of his soul mate. “I know you will. There’s nothing that can stand in the way of your stubbornness when you’re clear about the path before you.”

“Are you afraid?”

The Beloved laughed. “Of course not. It’s not in my nature. You’ve always said so.”

The Blasphemer pulled his beloved close and kissed him. They lay down together on the narrow bed and held each other.

Desire built up between them as it always did when they were close. They touched each other, feeling the outlines of their separateness, until the lines dissolved, and they lost the sense of where one began and the other ended.

The Blasphemer entered his beloved, thrusting hard into him, wanting to leave a permanent mark on his soul so he would never forget him, even in the realm of oblivion, secretly afraid that this would be his punishment for his defiance: to not be recognized when he met him afterwards on the other side, to not be known by the one who knew him so completely. 

The Beloved allowed his soul mate’s fierce ownership, understanding what was behind it. He felt closer to him than ever before, and yet he was aware of a feeling of loneliness, knowing that he would always have to share the one he loved, not with another, but with his soul mate’s own thoughts and beliefs, his constant searching for something else that would take him into places out of his reach.

They both felt the transition when it came. The Blasphemer held on tight but could not prevent it, no matter how hard he held on. His last sight of the one he loved was the way his eyes widened in surprise. And then he disappeared.

He thought that this was what death felt like when his arms collapsed into themselves, empty of the ever-familiar weight and warmth. 

He felt like he was shattering into pieces and wondered if it was the time of his own transition when the Angel Castiel entered his cell, lay down beside him, gathered him close and wrapped his powerful wings around him.

He cried until he wept tears of blood and the angel held him through it all.

~+~ ~+~

On the Sacred Mount, God was studying the Great Map of Sheol, a representation of both time and space.

“I really think you should have more control over where they end up, leaving it to chance leads to all sorts of trouble,” Metatron stated, his attention split between the chessboard and the Great Map.

Pinpricks of light flared all over the map as Souls were born into the world. God watched them attentively. “Where would be the fun and mystery in that, Metatron? I don’t wish to change the course of things. Sending particular souls into particular situations would govern events. I like not knowing where they will land.”

Metatron sighed. God truly did work in mysterious ways.

“Aah, there he is, January 24, 1979 in Lawrence, Kansas. His mother is from a hunting family. A noble heritage for one so fierce and devoted.”

“And the Blasphemer? What of him?”

“Not yet. The other went first. Wait, there he is, 2 May 1983 in Lawrence, Kansas.”

God went quiet. Metatron went and stood next to him, the game of chess forgotten for the moment.

“They’re _brothers_?!” Metatron exclaimed. “That does not bode well.” 

“Yes,” God said quietly. “Brothers with a destiny.”

Metatron watched the Blasphemer’s first moments of life. “Azazel! That foul and unclean manipulator!” He turned to God. “Surely, you will intervene. How can you simply stand by and constantly allow the Unclean to insinuate themselves into your Creation in this way?”

God looked sorrowful. He stroked a gentle, loving hand over the map. Silently, he went back to the chessboard and brooded over it with a melancholy air.

Metatron watched the map as the brothers grew into late adolescence. He pursed his lips primly. “It would appear there might be some bleed-through from their origin as lovers. Isn’t incest forbidden on Earth?”

God ignored him and turned his gaze towards the Infernal realm. “I’m tired of betrayal, Metatron. It used to be more fun, now I am exhausted by it all. And I am so alone. I miss her sometimes.”

“Your sister?!” Metatron exclaimed, incredulous. He shivered. “Surely not.”

God looked at the map. “The Story will play out as it’s meant to. I’d like to be alone now, Metatron.”

Metatron glanced at the board, unaware of his own role in the Story to come. He gave God a pitying look as he made his departure, equally unaware it would be some time before they saw one another again.

THE END 


End file.
